RV Living – Busted Compass

Hurricane vs. Virus

July, 2020

...the only thing worse than watching your home and all your worldly possessions go bouncing down the street is to be inside it when that happens.

As I write this I am about to be, as Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler so eloquently put it, Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea*.

Here in otherwise sunny Florida, hurricane season runs from June through November. This being the end of July, I feel like I've pushed my luck nearly to the breaking point. A potential Category 5 storm is heading in our general direction and, as objectively interesting as it might be to experience that in person, I believe I’d rather read about it from afar. Very afar.

In theory, a 50 mph wind can push a travel trailer like mine over. That’s only a Category 1 hurricane. The numbers go up from there and greater winds might just turn my house into a tumbleweed. And the only thing worse than watching your home and all your worldly possessions go bouncing down the street is to be inside it when that happens. I would probably not fare well in that situation and that’s the “devil” part.

Normally, I'd have been long gone by June 1st. But these are abnormal times, which is where “the deep blue sea” comes in. If I choose not to stay, then the only option is voyaging out into a world wrestling with COVID-19.

The virus is currently having its way with a large and growing number of people in the U.S. If that’s not enough, being man of a certain age (I’ll never see 65 again), I am in the statistical Danger Zone. Without boasting, I’m in great shape. I take no prescription drugs, I have all original parts and the only bit that has surrendered to aging is my hairline. Ordinarily I wouldn’t give the virus a passing thought. But unfortunately it's not ordinary. This critter doesn’t seem to care how healthy you are. The information we’re getting, albeit somewhat conflicting, indicates that it strikes in unpredictable ways. For example, some millennials have ended up on ventilators or have even died from it while a few centenarians have survived it. Go figure. Add to that the fact that it can take you down for 2 weeks to a month (longer if you’re hospitalized) and you realize that it's one big, scary, inconvenient pain in the ass.

So I'm forced to pit threat of the virus against the prediction of an “unusually active” hurricane season, which is a no-win choice.

But at the end of the day, I've been in Jacksonville far too long. So I've decided to use the storm as an excuse and bug out.

* (Speaking of The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, Click here to listen to a really cool cover of Mssrs. Arlen and Koehler’s jazz classic, this one by the amazing Annie Ross and the great Gerry Mulligan. Your ears will thank you for it.)

UPDATE: As storms will do, this one zigged a bit to the east while I zagged, heading southwest to visit friends in the Tampa area. My trip was calm and sunny all the way and a day or so later the winds and rain only grazed JAX. So far, so good.

Wanderlust

October, 2020

I am, as my grandmother would have said, nobody's fool. I caught on pretty quickly that the work involved in setting up and packing up the trailer is not worth doing for only a 24-hour stay. I did spend one night in a WalMart parking lot early on, but that was just a proof of concept — I did it to know that I could. Other than that, I'm not unhitching for less than two nights.

Campsite in Forrest City, AR - October, 2019

That said, this trip is about travel, not about standing still. There are few sadder sights than an RV sitting beside a house or in a storage lot, slowly going to seed and with grass growing tall beneath it. When I see one like that I hear it cry out, "Take me somewhere. This is not what I was made for!" Well, whenever we approach two weeks in one location, my trailer starts getting antsy. "Let's go," it says. "Time to hit the road!"

Our first stay was a full month in Tampa. I decided to hang close to the dealer from which the trailer was purchased just in case any problems developed. Thankfully none did, but I still think it was a smart move and I enjoyed the Tampa area. But that was one very long month. After only two weeks the trailer and I were both ready to go.

I never thought I had wanderlust. It's no secret to those who know me that I have a fear of flying (or more accurately, a fear of crashing) and I'm not crazy about hotels. These two facts have long made travel a chore, something to be avoided. But the RV lifestyle began to grow on me as soon as I started researching it many years ago. Now, after twenty years of dreaming and more than six months on the road, I find that it's everything I had hoped it would be and more.

The advantages of RVing over other types of travel include: 1.) you have a different view through your windows at every stop, 2.) no matter where you go, you get to sleep your own bed at night, and 3.) if the engine suddenly quits, it's highly unlikely that your vehicle will fall to the ground in a fiery inferno killing everyone aboard.

(Yes I know, that one of those last points reveals an odd contradiction in my personality — wanting to see new vistas yet still sleep at home. It's actually one of many and if that were the strangest of my idiosyncrasies, I might be nearly normal. But fortunately, I made friends with my quirks a long time ago. Close friends. I learned, not just to be unashamed of them, but to revel in them. I went so far as to design a life that made them work for me instead of against. But that's a whole other blog post. Or possibly a book. ...I digress.)

I'm sure that one day I'll be ready to settle down again in a "stick or brick" home, but at this moment I can't imagine wanting that. This nomadic life, being able to pick up and go anywhere on a whim, is just too much fun.

If that last sentence lit up something inside you, maybe you should try it too.

The Holy Terror of Bridges

September, 2020

I hate bridges. The higher and longer they are, the more I dislike them. And hauling four tons of travel trailer doesn't make them any more endearing.

The month of August spent in Canada was great, but I discovered that there's nothing like coming back to the USA. Even the first speed limit sign — in MPH instead of KPH — made me smile. But here's the thing: I hate bridges.

"It was long... it was high, and it was narrow. ...This bridge had it all."

The border crossing where we returned to the U.S. was on some islands in the St. Lawrence River. Google Maps told me there were a couple of bridges, but they didn't look too long and in the absence of details I figured, how bad could it be.

So imagine my surprise when I rounded a curve on Interstate 81 and was greeted by the sight pictured here.

There is a photographic trick at work that makes this bridge appear shorter and less steep that it really is. Actually, the first half goes up at about the same angle as... Oh hell, it goes straight up! It's like the start of the scariest roller coaster you've ever been on. It was long (the map said around 3000 feet, but I'm pretty sure it was closer to 3 miles), it was high, and it was narrow. It was a trifecta. This bridge had it all. I won't say I was terrified, but I briefly considered turning around, renouncing my U.S. citizenship and becoming a Canadian. At that moment, it seemed an entirely sensible thing to do.

But with no exits, I had no choice but to utilize a lesson learned long ago: when you can't go left or right and you can't go back, nut-up and forge ahead. I stepped on the gas and started up the hill.

When I say "stepped on the gas," what I really I mean is, I took my foot off the gas and slowed to a crawl. You can see the 40 mph sign in the picture, but there was no way I was about to go that fast, at least not with my eyes open.

So, I inched up the incline, trying with all my might to keep looking straight ahead. Higher and higher, heart pounding, hands in a death grip on the steering wheel. Then, about halfway up, I noticed three — count 'em, three — tractor-trailers barrelling downhill in the other lane. As I said, this was a very narrow bridge — two lanes only — so when I say, "in the other lane," what I really mean is, "holy crap, they're coming right at me!" My trailer is eight feet wide and the width of each lane was, to my eye, about seven feet eleven inches. Somehow, all three of the big rigs managed to pass by with no sounds of crunching fiberglass and if I hadn't blacked out just before then, I might have seen how they did it.

After what felt like hours, we crested the top and started on the equally long downhill leg, which was only slightly less panic-inducing since, at that point, we had to be at an altitude of about 10,000 feet. If I'd had the courage to look down I'm sure I would have spotted commercial air traffic below. And let me just mention that the only thing less fun than pulling a four-ton trailer up a steep hill is having four tons of trailer push you down the other side.

But we finally made it back to sea level and dry land, at which time I breathed a deep sigh of relief and began unclenching, well... everything that had been clenched. It took a few miles for my heart to settle back into my chest and return to near normal. At that point I said, "I hope I NEVER have to do that again!". I actually said it out loud.

Have you ever said something and then wished you could snatch the words right back out of the air? Well, a moment later I rounded another bend in the road and discovered...

That damned bridge had a twin!

I am not making this up. I was facing a second bridge that looked very much like the one I had just survived — barely. I'm pretty sure the two bridges weren't identical though because the second one looked longer. And higher. And narrower.

We somehow managed to get over that one too although, once again, the how is a bit of mystery. As mentioned, I hope to never have to repeat that experience. But if it ever comes up again, well, I'm sure I'll enjoy being a Canadian.

Go Maple Leafs, eh!

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The Nicest Woman I Never Talked With

August, 2019

In a previous post I mentioned the woman who runs the RV park where we stayed in Sherbrook, QC and that the only two words she seemed to know in English were "pay me". It later occurred to me that I may have treated her unfairly and that it could have been construed as greed rather than the simple fact that she knew very little English. And as also pointed out in that post, there's nothing wrong with that in Quebec.

"It was a good plan... But Mama outsmarted me"

Camping De L'Ile-Marie in Sherbrooke, Quebec, CA

She was a lovely woman; 40-ish, comfortably heavyset and motherly (in a good way), with a very winning smile. Not the 1000-watt smile of someone trying to sell you something you don't want or need, but more like a 100-watt smile, warm and natural. When she lit it up, you could't help but respond in kind. She also had a wonderful contralto voice that was made for French, which is a beautiful language to hear spoken, even when you can't understand the words.

Events caused some confusion in my mind (not that it takes much of an event to do that) about my campsite. I made the reservation online and found only one site in the whole place that was available for a full two-week stay, but the map indicated that it was out in the hinterlands, away from everything and everyone. Most times a location like that is fine for me, but I was in a rare sociable mood and decided that it wouldn't do. So instead, I chose two sites — one for each week — that were closer to the masses. It seemed like a good plan, even though it would require a move. But Mama outsmarted me.

Apparently, a few days before I arrived she spotted the lone site that was open for a straight two weeks and, in an effort to be helpful, she moved me there... without asking. She did call to let me know, but the language barrier resulted in the aforementioned confusion.

Check-in came and I found my site which, as luck would have it, was actually better than the two that I had chosen. Those would both have put me too close to some folks who obviously loved country music and wanted everyone nearby — and possibly some people in the next province — to hear what good taste they had.

Let me just pause here to point out that all modern RV's come with exterior speakers. That's right, speakers on the outside of the vehicle. In my humble opinion, the designer who thought that was a good idea should be horsewhipped, stocked and pilloried, pelted with sundry fruits and vegetables, and then made to listen to unending hours of country music at high volume. And I know just where they can send him for that last part.

In case I need to mention it, I don't care for country music.

But all of the campers in my little corner were pretty quiet and the site itself was grassy and level. So all was good and right with the world... until something occurred to me. Since I had reserved two sites for one week each, could they be expecting me to move after the first week? Move, that is, to the front row of the country concert venue?

It really wouldn't do to have someone show up wanting to claim my campsite for the next week with me having made no preparations to move. So just to be sure, I thought I would try and communicate my concern to the boss lady (in French: la patronne).

Wisely, if I do say, I pulled out my phone and posed my question to Google Translate. I then went to the office and placed the screen in front of her, whereupon she read it and with no hesitation, checked the map on her computer. That resulted in a couple of sentences that I didn't understand, accompanied by a thumbs-up. As far as I can determine, the thumbs-up is a universal sign. I don't know if its meaning is identical from Albania to Zimbabwe, but in that country and that province at that moment, I knew that I was good-to-go. Or stay, as the case may be. I responded with the same gesture to say thanks and was rewarded with that great smile.

Nice lady!

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Ugly Story, Happy Ending

June, 2019

This is an ugly sight. In fact, it can ruin your whole day.

For those of you who don't recognize the items in this scene, allow me to explain. Every modern RV has three holding tanks onboard. One is for potable water. When you're not hooked up to "city water", as most RV parks offer, you can still bathe, cook, soak your head, whatever, using the water in that reservoir. Second is the grey water tank. That holds waste from the sinks and shower — everything that goes down a drain. It's not drinkable, but neither is it toxic. The third tank holds the "black water" which, as you might guess, is connected to the toilet. That's right, you carry the contents around with you. Campsites typically provide either a central "dump station" where you can... well... dump your gray and black water tanks, or they offer "full hookups" which includes a sewer connection at each site where you can run a flexible pipe (which you also carry around with you) from the RV, thus allowing you to empty any or all of your tanks at will. These hookups might be located beside your vehicle when you pull in or they could be at the back of the site. And to make it a little more interesting, the discharge port on your RV might be anywhere from the very front to the very back. Each manufacturer has their own way of doing it. The bottom line is, you never know how far you'll be from the utility connections until you get there. Got all that?

OK. The photo above shows the sewer pipe and the discharge port under the trailer to which it connects. Nothing ugly about that. Usually that hookup is an RVer's friend, as it allows us to live a fairly normal home life, plumbing-wise. But here's what happened in this case.

We had pulled into our campsite in Cherokee, NC, which is in a gorgeous, pristine, unspoiled area adjacent to the Smokey Mountains, and just up the road from Harrah's Cherokee Casino and Resort (to which none of those adjectives apply). Getting set up at an RV park involves the following: park the trailer, unhitch the trailer, level the trailer, open the slide-outs and straighten up everything that moved during transit (and, believe me, everything moves during transit), hook up to electric, water and, of course, sewer services.

The photo above was taken after the trailer had been parked, unhitched and leveled — normally the most time-consuming jobs — and many of the other points on that list had been seen to, but not the last one. What you see there is a sewer line that's about 4 feet short of achieving its worldly purpose. The utility services at this campground were way at the back of the site while my sewer connection is toward the front of the trailer. That gap is not what you want to find after a long day on the road and all that setup. That's the ugly part!

And did I mention that the black and gray water tanks were nearly full from a 5-day stay at a friend's house? (I've been trying to get him to add a sewer hookup for me, but for some reason I've had some push-back on that.)

Granted the chances are probably pretty slim, but if you ever find yourself in this situation, here are the choices you'll face: 1.) Re-hitch the vehicle and try to get it closer to the sewer connection, then re-level and pretty much re-everything else; 2.) Make a run to Wal-Mart (in this case, about 25 miles away) and desperately hope they have the sewer line extension that you need; or 3.) ...Just hold it.

In case you're wondering, I opted for a combination of 2 & 3: limited potty visits and a Navy shower (you know what that is, right?) until the next day, then a trip to Wal-Mart. And yes, they had a sewer line extension (things like that are mostly made it China, so of course Wal-Mart had it). Under NO circumstances was I going to move the trailer after all that work. It was a point of pride.

Oops, I almost forgot the happy ending.

It was a nice park in a beautiful part of the country and after that rough start, we spent a very pleasant week there. Had a good meal or two and a great hike in the mountains with a clear rushing river and a couple of waterfalls to enjoy.

The place would have been perfect if Wal-Mart had been as close as the casino.

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